What Marriage Vows Should Really Be

We went to our first wedding of 2015 this past weekend. This is when it all starts isn’t it? As soon as there are bees buzzing, flowers growing, and animals humping the nuptials start overflowing as much as Whitney Houston’s bathtub.

We took the kids. They LOVE weddings. To them it’s dancing, food, and Mom and Dad getting tipsy enough to not care about a damn thing they’re doing.

“Mom can I have this 5th piece of cake, tip over the port-a-potty and slap Aunt Jen’s ass?”

“Sure baby, and get Mommy another beer on your way back.”

As I said, they do love weddings, but only after the ceremony is finished. The ceremony is the vegetables. You have to sit through the ceremony before you’re allowed to demolish your molten lava double chocolate sprinkle and jelly filled cake. Well there they were, sitting through the ceremony like champs, when the minister gets to the part about “blah, blah, blah…joined in holy matrimony,” and my five-year old fireball says “Did she just say macaroni?”

We lost it. It was a combination of the church giggles and a reverence for my daughter’s quite natural and prolific comedic genius. She still won’t admit it, but I’m pretty sure she KNEW they were NOT saying “macaroni.”

It did get me thinking though. Why not macaroni? After kids, doesn’t 68.7% of your marriage consist of wiping shit and making macaroni?

So, with a little inspiration from my daughter, and a lot of cynicism, I decided to bust out a revamp of the traditional marriage vows.

Let’s do church.

I, person, take thee, person

to be legally bonded in order to get better tax benefits

and have an excuse to go on a vacay once a year and do weird sexually deviant hush-hush things in order to stay amused by each other and keep this train rolling (the train is referring to the marriage, not the acceptable amount of sexual deviance)

For days when you make me bacon and I don’t knee you in the gut for trying to bone me after I’m asleep

For days when I run meaningless errands to have some time to myself and come home with a $20 bottle of wine and a $200 assortment of bullshit, because Target

For days when my boss pisses me off and I use you as my emotional punching bag

For days when you blame my parents for my neurotic and sociopathic behavior

Through the times I’m being hormonal and crying at a commercial for orange juice, right after screaming at you for getting the sugar-free creamer

Through the times you’re on a new diet and looking at me in disgust for eating an entire carton of Ben and Jerry’s Cherry Garcia while you chow down on kale flavored air and paper biscuits

Until our rotting corpses pass into the afterlife

Forever

And ever

Shit that’s a long ass time.

I promise to try.

(This post originally ran on BrandiDunagan.com.)

About the author: Brandi is a Texas based humorist that self identifies as “Moderately Funny & Majorly Disturbed.” Catch her on her purging inappropriateness on her blog on confusing us all with her podcast Candy Cigarettes.